Letters to the Sanatorium
by Alias Euterpe
Summary: This is my whack at what Dr. Turner said in his letters to Sr. Bernadette. An unoriginal idea, I know, but I daresay you will not be disappointed. DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. It all belongs to Jennifer Worth, Heidi Thomas, the BBC and just a schmear to Jane Austen. ;-) I thank them for letting me muck about in his MG Magnette of a mind.
1. Step Forward Doctor

Sister Bernadette,

I hope our Officer after the Somme is doing well and resting as she should. I know that a diagnosis of TB is frightening and the stigma of it can be crushing. Sister Monica Joan, in particular, has been rather vocal in her concerns, most likely based on her experiences of old. I have assured everyone at Nonnatus House that, if diagnosed early, TB is no longer considered a death sentence. I am convinced that the triple treatment, especially with the addition of isoniazid, is the best possible course of action at this time. Certainly a long way from the pneumothorax procedure of old although a little heliotherapy wouldn't go amiss when you are rested enough. For my part, I am assured by colleagues I trust implicitly that Saint Anne's comes highly recommended. Thank goodness my old friend, Dr. Phillips, was able to find you a bed at such short notice. All of your friends wish nothing less than the best possible care for you.

Since your departure, I have diagnosed 4 more TB cases this week alone. We continue to comb through the x-ray plates. Our ability to diagnose TB so early at all I credit completely to you and your tremendously astute appeal to the board. You see? Even though you are not in Poplar, your caring presence continues to be felt in the most positive of ways. All of these patients are on waiting lists for a bed and will be treated at home until they can be placed. I worry about the kinds of sanatorium they may be placed in. Many are satisfactory but many are not. Perhaps one day, a sanatorium will be unnecessary as I wonder if the distress inherent in being parted from ones families may be counter-productive? Still, it is better than trusting to home treatment as it is imperative the medications be consistently administered. Not to mention containing the infection. Perhaps addressing the abhorrent conditions of some of the sanatorium will be my next foray into battle with the officer?

Things are as they always were at Nonnatus House. Nurse Lee is developing into quite the effective midwife. I admit that I had my reservations about her ability to accept the stark brutality of life in Poplar with humility, but she seems to be adjusting better every day. She has an uncanny ability to handle the cantankerous ones. Had you asked me a year ago if she had this ability, I would not have seen it in her. I am sure that, with your exceptional talent to see the strengths in everyone, you saw that in her quicker than I.

Timothy asked after you. I tried to spare him the details, but he knows that you are ill. He misses you and sends his best. Please do not hesitate to let me know if there is anything I can do for you in the capacity of your GP.

Sincerely,

Dr. Turner

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A/N: A slow start, I know. Our good doctor is all work! In researching this first letter, I sure did learn a lot about the management and treatment of TB pre- and post-WWII Britain! WWII through the 50's was an exciting time in medical history. Pretty fascinating, really. Also from the personal accounts I have read, the sanatorium system was a bit hit or miss as well. Some were fine and some were nightmares, especially those for children, sadly. Most seemed to have long waiting lists because of under staffing. Home treatment was the only option for many at first. That led me to the idea that the good doctor pulled some strings for her. What I lack in accuracy, I have made up for in vagueness.


	2. Breath of Life

Dear Sister Bernadette,

I hope you are steadily improving. I also hope my letters from the front give you some diversion from the boredom your lively mind must be experiencing. Take it from your GP that you desperately need rest in order to recover. All of your friends miss your gentle presence and unwavering expertise. Your return to Poplar is greatly anticipated by all.

Mrs. Bennett had her baby this week. As baby was early and did not present properly. I was called in to assist. I say assist because Nurse Miller and Nurse Franklin barely required my presence in the end. Sometimes I feel as if I am only there for moral support! And gas and air, it would seem, much to Sister Evangeline's very thinly cloaked disdain. Nurse Miller's bed-side manner in particular, while no substitute for the experience behind your tender attention, provided Mrs. Bennett the calmness of mind she needed to face the challenge. All Nurse Miller needed was a bit of faith in her instincts. You may not know this, but I did purposely challenge her personal confidence prior to revealing the results of the inquiry, all in conspiracy with Sister Julienne, of course. That experience shook her to her core. We knew she had done everything she could possibly have done but she needed to find that reserve of faith deep within herself and not from me or Sr. Julienne or a piece of paper. It was you who showed me the necessity of absolute and unwavering confidence as a midwife.

I saw it on full display on the night with the Carter sisters. You were nothing less than tremendous. I had seen Eve's Rocking used on adults during the war, but had not seen it used to resuscitate a newborn. I have worked along side the nuns of Nonnatus House for a long time now. I never tire of watching you, and your sisters, at work and have absolute confidence in all of you. In this case, you quite literally breathed life into that infant. Witnessing these inspiring moments are as close to a spiritual experience I will ever have. When you murmured a soft Praise the Lord, I admit that I felt that the life of Little Meg had more to do with the call of your humanity than the call of divine intervention. One could argue that He gave you your talents and dedication to use for the good of the people you serve in the most necessary way possible.

Timothy is altogether too intelligent for his own good. He has been peppering me with questions about you as only an inquisitive boy can. I can tell he misses you greatly. As do we all. I decided that it is best if I tell him exactly where you are and why. There are brief shining moments, all too far and few in between, when I feel as if perhaps I have done something correctly as a father. This is probably mostly attributable to the parenting of his mother and, more recently, the inhabitants of Nonnatus House and not my own talents as a father. But I try to teach him responsibility and independence. One never knows when one might be left alone in this brave new world. Despite my trepidations, he faced the news with a strength that belies his 9 short years on this earth. Rather than descending into sadness, he immediately expressed his wish to assist you in any way. It would seem that while I have feared the experience of losing his mother has scarred him for life, it has also matured him. I am very proud of him.

Please do let me know if there is anything I can do for you as your physician or, indeed, as your friend.

Sincerely,

Dr. Turner

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A/N: Of the methods of resuscitation used prior to the discovery of the CPR we know today, Eve's Rocking (not Ease Rocking, as I first heard it, silly me) was discovered in 1932 by Dr. Frank C. Eve. Apparently it was used quite a bit during WWII to resuscitate near-drowned victims on boats. Mouth-to-mouth had been around forever. I choose to believe that Sr. Bernadette is being rather ingenious in putting the two together. I have no factual support for that assumption other than the necessity of dramatic license. Could be that it was part of standard midwife training and/or experience. Who couldn't be completely infatuated with someone who can do that?! At any rate, it was a beautifully shot and acted moment.


	3. No Need To Amputate

**A/N:** Please read & review. I don't bite. (much.)

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Dear Sister Bernadette,

It is almost a month into your treatment with no news regarding your condition. I do not wish to burden Sr. Julienne with my inquiries and she has not offered. It is not my place to burden her. She has enough to worry about without me compounding it.

This concerns me because patients usually begin to respond favorably to treatment within a few weeks. The triple treatment includes streptomycin to which we know the tuberculosis bacteria can develop some resistance. Thus the reason it is used in conjunction with the other two compounds. While I keep telling myself that most respond extremely well to the treatment, for me, no news is not necessarily good news. Of course, you know all of this already. I am vainly attempting to assuage my own concerns. I am sure you would gently berate me for my anxiety in a way that would leave me completely unaware of being chided at all. I could certainly use a moment of your kind words of wisdom to put my mind at ease.

Your kindness has always included Timothy for which I am very grateful. He needs more tenderness in his life. I am too gruff with him at times, I am afraid. Timothy has certainly taken to you. You have cared for him when I was not able to several times. When he turned up from school with the graze on his elbow, I should have taken the time for him, but I had left Mrs. Howard. You know how she can be! I am somewhat embarrassed by my behavior then. You understood me, as always, and took charge, asking my permission with your eyes, which of course I gave. How could I not? Apparently, we both rely on you now. After that incident, the length of time it took me to deliver his picture of the two of you had less to do with absent-mindedness, as I told Sr. Julienne, and more with the desire to keep it near me. It comforted me to see both of you together and to know that he had another person to whom he could turn when I am not available. I hope it put the same smile on your face as it put on mine.

Both of you have put a smile on face many times. Allow me to say you are surprising in that respect and I enjoy it greatly. The motley crew of Nonnatus house are all endearingly amusing in their own way, some unintentionally so. They each have their unique and captivating idiosyncrasy and are consummate nurses and close friends. Then there is you – lightly moving back and forth between the world of the religious and the secular, between the corporal and the spiritual, offering advice and insight with your softly lilting voice. In spite of, or maybe because of, your skill as a nurse, I think that might be the single most valuable asset you bring to Nonnatus House.

This kindness stands in contrast to a sparking and, if I am honest, slightly droll wit that you have astonished me with at times. When I humourously offered you a Henley, you asked for a wee puff. I never imagined that you had even tried one much less committed petty larceny against your own father to obtain one. I am not sure if that says more about you or your father. Perhaps one day you will tell me? None the less, that is quite an intriguingly delightful thing to know. You do realize that is a common law offense? If PC Noakes were here, I would report you, but I will satisfy myself to prescribing you to a life-time of cod liver oil to ward against any relapse once you return to us. That should be penance enough, don't you think?

I also recall the time you injured your hand after running the 3-legged race with Timothy. When I brought it to your attention, you told me that you were sure there was no need to amputate. I wish I had been in a state of mind to appreciate the levity in that gentle jest at the time, but all I felt was disappointment when you ran away from me again. What do I do to make you run from me? But perhaps the less said about that the better.

I must go. Take care. I know you are fully aware of the side effects of the drug regimen you are on. Humour your concerned friend and GP by allowing me to remind you that if you suffer fever, rashes, nausea, or headache, do not hesitate to inform the nurses. Or I shall have to take the trip there with my bottle of cod liver oil and take matters into my own hands!

Your Friend,

Dr. P. Turner

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**A/N:** More pointless medical research compliments of a Google search: (What I lack in accuracy, I make up for in vagueness.) Cod liver oil and direct sunlight, both high in vitamin D, were very common treatments for TB before the advent of the drug therapies, amongst other, much more frighteningly invasive procedures. Streptomycin and p-aminosalicylic acid were both discovered in the late 40's. Streptomycin first and was use alone until it was discovered that it caused issues by creating a drug resistant TB. Pairing it with P-aminosalicylic acid helped, but it wasn't until the advent of idoinazid in the early 50's that the triple treatment really took off. So, in essence, the triple treatment had only been around for about 5 years by the time Sr. B needs it. Having both lived and worked prior to the triple treatment, I choose to think that both Dr. T and Sr. B would have been more than familiar with the *curative properties* of cod liver oil, in all it's disgusting-ness. I also needed something for him to gently tease her about. What better foil than good old cod liver oil? Does anyone else remember the old cartoons where the children are comically choking down their daily dose? I am probably dating myself...


	4. The Best of Colleagues

**A/N:** Since you lovely people helped me break my one day viewership record, here is the next chapter. Please review! I take guest reviews so you don't even need to be registered on this site to leave one.

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My Dear Sister Bernadette,

I have a confession to make. I could stand it no longer so I took matters into my own hands. In my position as your GP, I rang Dr. Phillips for an evaluation. He tells me that while it did take you a bit longer to respond to treatment initially, he assures me that there are signs of improvement and has been for some time. It is comforting to know that I relinquished you to the care of such a respectable a colleague as Dr. Phillips.

When met Dr. Phillips in medical school, we became fast friends. Since that time we have been through The Blitz and we both served in the RAMC in different regiments. After the war, he went on to consultant care and I, as you know, back to general practice. He and I both initially met Sr. Julienne working at The London during The Blitz. Over the years, she and I have created a working relationship that I value greatly. I know I can be completely forthright with her and she with me. I have not had as gratifying a working relationship with anyone before or since. Until now.

There is another at Nonnatus House with whom I have as symbiotic a professional affinity, if not more so. Someone with whom I seem to be able communicate without the spoken word. Someone who anticipates my next diagnostic step. Someone who works in the same rhythm as myself. Can you guess of whom I speak? While I have always held your work in the highest regard, over these recent months, I have come to appreciate our professional relationship above all others. On several occasions, we have acted as one in the most challenging of circumstances.

I felt it most intensely at the delivery of Maeve Carter's twins. I was only half joking when I likened us to an officer and sergeant after the Somme during that delivery. I was barking out empty orders only as a matter of protocol. You and I could have done it without uttering a word. A shift of an arm or a glance is all that was needed. We both knew exactly what had to be done and how to do it. Our spoken communication was only to keep Nurse Franklin, herself a brick at this birth, in synch with us.

This symbiosis is why I approached you for a list of the needs of the clinic. I had already approached Sister Julienne but she gave me the same response about taking pride in working in, what I believe, are unnecessarily Spartan conditions. I knew that if you wouldn't tell me for your sake, you would tell me for your patient's sake. In our time working together, I have seen that you are as interested in progressive equipment and practices as I am and want the best for our patients. When our eyes met over those ridiculously ancient spirit lamps, a wave of that connection passed between us, I am sure of it.

After all, part of my job is assessing the medical needs of the clinic and making requests to the board. There is one request to the board that solidified my opinion that we make a very formidable team in a way I have not experienced with any other colleague. I abhor appealing to the board. They are officious and dismissive. They have no concept, and less concern, for the conditions under which the people of Poplar live and we work. Remember the Autoclave? It took them 6 months to approve the replacement of the old one. The issue of the x-ray van is one I feel particularly passionate about. I clearly was not getting through to them. You, clearly, did. As I very nearly lost my temper, you picked up my tack and translated it into a language they could understand. The real stroke of brilliance was that you twisted into terms, that of pounds and pence, with such sublime subtlety. All that was left for me was to complete that train of thought, as if we were of one mind.

The burst of adrenaline I felt knowing what we had won for the people of Poplar carried me out of the room on a wave of elation. I am absolutely certain you felt it as well. If I could take you with me every time I must make these kinds of appeals to the board, they would never stand a chance against us! You make me better doctor. For that, I am forever in your debt. You, my dear Sister Bernadette, are a natural!

Your Sergeant,

P. Turner

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**A/N:** Well! It would seem that I have created a new character. (Go me!) The back-story re: the good Dr's Turner and Phillips is, obviously, a product of my hyper-active imagination. I kept it vague as I know less about the The Blitz or the RAMC than I do about the history of TB treatment. But it seems to me that Dr. T is of an age to have been involved in both. Anyway, I read an article in The Telegraph about a doctor working at the Royal London Hospital during the Blitz and well, the idea was born! There is also a great website by the BBC called WW2 People's War. Check it out!


	5. International Nun of Mystery

**A/N: **Please review. It helps immensely.

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My Dear Sister Bernadette,

I spoke again with Dr. Phillips. After assuring me about the continued improvement of your physical state, I inquired after your mental state. He informed me that your taciturn gentleness is fully in-tact. You seem to be giving the nurses quite a run for their money regarding your history. He says that they have started referring to you as the International Nun of Mystery! From Officer to Spy in a matter of weeks? If only they knew the intricancies of the person I am honored to call my friend.

For we are good friends, aren't we? Your support of me has been invaluable on more than one occasion. At least as far back as last Christmas when I arrived to pick up the sanitised instruments, you took pity on me and inquired after Timothy. I have no right to burden you with my problems, but I do worry for him and deeply value your guidance and insight. I was touched and honored by your forthright confession to me about the loss of your mother. In that moment, I saw you with new eyes. I believe it was the first time I began to view you as a person and friend as well as a nun and colleague. More than that, it helped calm my fears for Timothy. You were right, of course. Children are like sundials, they record the happy hours. Still, I fear I am not as good a parent as I should be to him. Not alone. Some days I am happy if he is dressed, much less hair brushed and shoes tied. He and I are so alike in many ways. His mother's gentle guidance acted as a beacon to show us the way back to each other when needed.

I cared for his mother as only the young can. We married soon after I completed medical school. In fact, Dr. Phillips was our best man. She thought she was marrying into a future as a comfortable GP's wife. I had seen the needs of the people during The Blitz and moved us to Poplar. Then the war took me away. The NHS began a few years after and my services were more in demand than ever. It was a life I am not certain she was fully equipped to face. You will remember what a good woman she was. She knew of my absolute dedication to the people of Poplar as well as the necessity of the work. Although, I am certain there was the odd Christmas Day delivery on which she sighed, Even on Christmas Day you must go out! While I spent most of my time away healing the sick and needy, she needed a passion as well. When we were blessed with Timothy soon after, she poured her heart and soul into him like the loving mother she was. They were very close and Timothy misses her more than he shows. I think he tries to be strong for me.

I hope it is obvious that I adore Timothy more than my life, but it can be difficult to face the burden when I look in his face and see that perfect mixture of us reflected back at me. He has her lighter hair, blue eyes, and sweetness of nature. Over the last two years, I threw myself into my work to escape the guilt of not being able to save her and he threw himself into the resentment of my absences. He is now of an age that he feels them acutely. He has every right to feel this way. I believe that deep down, he understands the necessity for what I do as much as she did but if I am honest, my passion for healing has only compounded the distance I have allowed grow between us. He is a bright and intuitive boy. I hope that he can see that the love I show him is more significant than the love I find it so difficult to express in words.

Seeing you with him has inspired me to try to be more present in his life. I have spoken with Fred about doing something with the scout troop. It will have to be for a first aid badge as the only other thing I know how to do is make an origami frog. I'll spare you the details but it is never fails to amuse the 10 year old set.

Your Friend,

P. Turner

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**A/N:** I couldn't possibly let the "International Nun of Mystery" exchange go unmentioned, now could I? What a wonderful little turn the Sanatorium Nurse was both in performance and writing.

The Christmas Day delivery quote is from the first book in which the doctor is (shocker!) married with children. Although I am pretty sure Heidi Thomas' "Doctor" is an amalgamation of the many GP's from the books.

The "Children are like sundials…" quote is from Heidi Thomas herself. (Radio Times, 17 February, 2013) It hit a very powerful personal chord for me.


	6. A More Thorough Self Examination

**A/N:** If you have a moment, please leave a review. Tell me what you like or what you don't like. I would really appreciate it. Reviews make me post faster!

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My Dear Sister,

Dr. Phillips informs me that you are now responding extremely well to the treatment which is very good news, indeed. He says the prognosis is so good that you may be discharged somewhat earlier than the usual. You seem to be surprising us all with your fortitude. I don't suppose I should be surprised at all. Although he says that you still have quite a while in the Sanatorium, I will not let that dampen my spirits. It is a slow growing illness and the recovery can be equally slow. 2-3 months on the triple treatment in a Sanatorium is only the beginning. You will require an additional 15 months of medication and recuperation on home treatment as well.

Now that the worst has passed, my mind wanders back to that day of the mobile unit, a day that began with such promise and ended with such concern. Telling you was one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do. I nearly crumbled with the idea that I had to give this kind of news again to someone I care for about a disease over which I have very little control. My heart nearly broke when I had to snuff the sparkle in your eyes. It shot me back to the time I realised that I couldn't save her. All we could do was watch her fade away. I expected the memories of the war to haunt me, but they were nothing in comparison to that. I can compartmentalize my memories of the war as the past. My memories of her and you and our work are too inextricably intertwined with the present and my heart. In a moment of maudlin self-pity, I wondered what kind of curse I carried that sent the people I care for to this end. But you needed my strength, not my pity.

Seeing the lesions was bad enough but the hope still remained that it was latent. When you told me about the breathlessness, I stoically buried myself in diagnostic protocol. As I was listening to your lungs, I hoped against hope that I would not hear what I heard on both sides. The evidence of edema indicated that this was further along than I had hoped. Knowing that TB is a curable disease does not lessen the risk of rejection, resistance or even, more rarely, recurrence. As your friend, I was not going to let you face this alone. I would brook no argument which you seemed to understand as you have always understood me.

Perhaps I should have said more. I certainly could not have said less. I attempted to show you in as many ways as I could that you will recover, that I would do everything in my power to make that happen for you, that I am here for you in whatever capacity you require, that I care. The next morning, when you got in the car for your testing, I desperately wanted to say something to put your mind at ease. I almost did, but you would not look at me. This was probably for the best. Anything I could have said would have sounded hollow. At The London, they informed me I could leave and return when it was time to take you home to Nonnatus House, but I was not going to leave you alone until I had no other choice, as I leave Timothy and as I left her. So I waited the entire time.

Later, when I left you at the sanatorium, I felt a bit as if I had abandoned you. I tried to reassure you and you thanked me for my kindness. Kindness! How many times have we used that grotesquely insufficient word? Is it too much to say that it is some months now since I began to believe that our connection runs deeper than that? I would not be worth the ground I walk on if I didn't do all I could to assist someone of such caring and goodness. When you walked away, your courage made my admiration for you grow exponentially. I watched over you until I could see you no more. I wanted to accompany you inside, take charge and make sure everything was in proper order, but what right did I have? You seemed to want to face this with your usual brave silence. Your body may have been weak, but your tremendous spirit thrives.

Expressing my feelings in the spoken word is not my strong suit. What is so easily expressed on a piece of paper, is not so easily done when I am looking into your eyes. There are no facts and figures in feelings. I can only hope you understand me and try to Do No Harm. Something at which I fear I am failing miserably at right now.

Your Friend,

P. Turner


	7. The Window Opens

**A/N:** I am very grateful for the reviews. Please don't stop.

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My Dear Sister,

Now that I know you are well on the road to recovery, I confess that I am beginning to worry about receiving any response from you. I am not sure if this is a good or a bad turn of events. I had hoped that the lack of response was due to the insecurity of your health situation. Perhaps there is more to it. As I uncharacteristically rambled on in my recent letters about my problems, I am embarrassed to think that I did not have yours in full view.

As I ponder this, a thought has occurred to me. I wonder if you have been silent because you see this diagnosis as a punishment for some past transgression. I hope not. There is not one cubic centimetre of meanness in you. Any transgression is mine. I sincerely hope that your faith is unshaken, but there have been moments when I feel you are questioning it. Again, forgive my presumption but I frequently find myself remembering every moment we have had together within the last year or so. Many times I sense that you have been trying to tell me something.

The first time I became aware of this was as I was preparing for the Kelly baby inquiry. As is usual for you and your untiring dedication to the well-being of others, you very kindly asked me if I needed anything. I assumed you meant in the spiritual sense. When I asked for some of your faith and ruminated on the idea that it was times like that I wished I had some, you surprised me by replying, It is at times like these I wish it made a difference. At the moment, I asked you to stay with me because what you said made me realise that this was not an issue of faith but rather an issue of humanity. I needed your presence to remind me that these were real people suffering a real human loss, Nurse Miller included. I can lose sight of that at times.

In hindsight, I believe that I also felt your reticence. Of faith or vocation, I did not know. I wanted to offer you a gesture of friendship, to return the favor you extended to me last Christmas. For the briefest of moments, you seemed to want to stay and talk. But then I saw you hesitate. Perhaps it was too much. You, of course, did the right thing and excused yourself. I am not a spiritual man, the war and life burnt that out of me long ago. I am a man of science, of action, of logic. But I do respect your faith and understand the calling that spurs it on.

The hours of joy I have experienced in connection to the next instance is second only to the confusion I have experienced after you said it to me. After that gesture of generosity to Timothy during the Summer Fete, your glasses fell off. When I handed them back to you, I caught a glimpse of honesty in the depths of your rather stunning blue eyes you tend to keep hidden from me. After handing them to you, I wanted to recapture that feeling, if only for a moment. I thought about not following you into the clinic but in the end I simply couldn't help myself. I told myself that I just wanted to make sure your wound was nothing to worry about. I had no intention of doing what I did. Then your hand was in mine and in it I saw all the years of selfless dedication and passionate commitment you have given to the people of Poplar, myself and Timothy included. The kiss I reverently placed on your palm was not only a gesture of gratitude for my son but also a declaration of the very high regard and respect in which I hold you, my dear sister.

When you told me that you weren't turning your back on me because of me, you were turning your back on me because of Him, an ember of hope caught fire in my worn out soul. This glimmer of redemption was dampened with the thought of my reprehensible behavior. I meant what I said about accepting your commitment to Him. It is a large part of what makes you the glorious person you are. At that moment I realized that the superficial wound on your hand is secondary to the wound in your soul. I sense that you struggle with it and that my gesture, however sincere, does not help you. So I retreated.

I cannot take back that declaration. The truth is out. You are truly the kindest and most generous person I have ever known. Much kinder and generous a person than I deserve to have as confidant and guide. I am so sorry that I stepped over the boundaries. You may have forgiven me, but I had yet to forgive myself for placing you in that position.

Your Dear Friend,

P. Turner


	8. All Tickety-Boo and Marvelous

A/N: Please leave a review. They make me happy. I hope this fic makes you happy.

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My Dear Friend,

Lately, I find myself slipping into moments of somber reflection. I am finding it increasingly difficult to stay concentrated on the task at hand. I feel as if my right arm has been removed from my body. Although I know why I feel this way, I also know that I do not deserve to feel this way. I am worried about you and, although I know your body is healing, I long to know how you are faring in mind and soul from you and no one else.

During the Antenatal Clinic this afternoon, I was taking a break in the kitchen in the exact same spot where I kissed your palm. I was thinking how much the clinic was missing something. I was thinking how empty the room felt even though it was full of the noisy activity of the nurses, sisters, mothers-to-be and their energetic children. I was thinking about the last time we were in that room together when I transformed everything the day of the Fete.

As I was lost in these thoughts and playing distractedly with a biscuit, Nurse Franklin came in and broke my concentrated reverie. She has begrudgingly assumed your nappy folding demonstrations and, in her inimitably cheeky fashion, offered to trade with me. I took that opportunity to inquire after you. When she informed me that you had been corresponding with her with regularly, I fear I did not react with much of the professional composure for which I am famous. I nearly broke a mug as it fell from my hands into the sink! To compound poor Nurse Franklin's obvious confusion regarding my reaction, I think I repeated one of those phrases that only Nurse Noakes can utter with any kind of respectability but from me sounded thoroughly ridiculous indeed.

Never have I uttered a more insincere phrase. I was taken off guard with my reaction. My experiences during The Blitz, the RAMC, and years as a physician have taught me self-control and self-denial. I am shocked at the sense of desolation this silence is putting me into and that I am utterly unable to master the turmoil of emotions inside me. I find I am selfishly disappointed that you haven't written to me as well, or at least to Timothy. Then I berate myself for even considering that I deserve one iota of attention and concern from you.

Timothy asked when we might hear of you again. When I informed him that Nurse Franklin was making a visit, he asked her to deliver a package to you. I can't help but imagine the radiant smile that will light up your face when you see what is inside. I hope it puts the sparkle back in your eyes as it did mine. It was his idea completely and he has informed me in no uncertain terms that you and you alone can provide the answer to him. I think he is trying to find a connection to you. I had not realised that he feels it that strongly. There were glimpses of it but I rationalised it as nothing more than a school-boy infatuation based on gratitude. I certainly could not fault his taste. I admit that the less than generous side of me hopes that his package might spur you to response, if not for my sake, then for his. He misses you. We miss you. I miss you.

Your Devoted,

P.


	9. How Can I Be Unhappy When I Have You?

A/N: Wow! Thanks for the reviews. Did I mention that reviews make me update faster? ;-) You will all recognize where we are in canon on this one. A little nervous about this chapter. Hope it works. Please do let me know...

* * *

My Dear,

I have boldly poured my heart out to you over the past several weeks. Never have I been so candidly effusive. I do not know why you have not responded. I desire nothing more of this moment in the world than to be able to gaze steadfastly into your luminous blue eyes and sincerely inquiry of you, How are _you_? Are you reading my letters? Do you think of me as constantly as I think of you? Do you need me as I need you?

I have been thinking back to the times you gave me the pleasure of allowing me to show my devotion to you. I have been wondering if all of what I thought I saw in your eyes is perhaps only the misguided hopes of my own wishful thinking. Perhaps all I have imagined is nothing more than the pledge of a dedicated spiritual guide for a lost sheep or worse, pity for a threadbare widower? For my part, there is much more, something sacred and reverent in its own way.

Lately, I have caught myself sitting in the car lost in thoughts of you. I have been going over every moment we have had together, picking them apart, running a differential diagnosis over and over in my head. But thus far, no amount of empiricism, logic or rationality helps me identify the etiology of this state in which I find myself.

On one of those occasions in the pouring rain, I had forgotten that Timothy was asleep in the back seat. When he woke up, he asked me if I was unhappy. I did not know that he had noticed, clever boy. I did what all parents do when they don't want to give a direct answer to their child's insightful question, I answered his question with a question. I asked him, How can I be unhappy when I have you? He gave me that little half-smirk of a smile. I don't think he believed my answer to him at all.

Apparently, my misery has been showing more than I was aware or intended. He said that his grandmother told him that I used to do the same thing after we lost his mother. The exact words were that I was like a dog without my sheep. This is a crushing verdict, to be sure, but not too far off the mark. I am lost. I do not have my guide, my friend, my confidant. I do not have you.

How can I tell him the truth? How can I tell him that I am unhappy without him thinking he is somehow to blame? How can I tell him that it has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me? The promise of fried bread diverted his attention quickly enough. I wish it were that simple for me.

I have spent hours grappling with the hypothesis that I care so deeply for someone so unattainable, someone for whom I can have no reasonable expectation of there being a return of the same adoration. It would be grossly unfair of me to even ask that of you. I cannot even begin to think that I deserve your commitment more than God. What kind of person would that make me? It is your choice alone and I know you must come to it of your own accord and in your own time. The only way for me to venerate my feelings for you is to allow you that space.

I have convinced myself that this interminable silence makes your wishes perfectly clear. I know it is too much to ask of you, so I am steeling myself to go on as we always have upon your return. I have no conceivable idea how I am going to return to the way we were before, but for your sake and in sanctity for the feelings I hold for you, I promise you that I will find a way. It will take me time to reconcile myself to that. I would never wish to make you uncomfortable in my presence. I am determined to spend the time remaining steeling myself for your inevitable return and the denial of feelings that I will hold close to my chest and carry silently in my heart.

I am and will always be your devoted,

P.


	10. Too Much is Not Enough

My Dearest,

Timothy received your note and the beautiful painting. It did both of us a world of good to behold something that had only days before been touched by your compassionate hands. We both felt as if we were there sitting beside you peacefully gazing at the view from your window. The smile of joy it brought to his face was a wonder to behold.

As he read your note to me, I was on tender-hooks. I waited for even the smallest sign that you have not been frightened off by my letters. The fact that you termed them as kind tells me that you were not offended by all I have confessed to you over these past few months. I can say without a shadow of a doubt that is the only time the use of the word "kind" made perfect sense, although my heart sank a bit when Timothy spoke the words, "In due course." He asked me what it meant. I told him that it could mean "soon" or "at some time in the future." Please take pity on me and tell me it means the former.

Should your response tell me that you care more for me than this protracted silence has implied? I confess that no matter what you have decided, I can't wait any longer in this agonizing silence. I am part misery and part hope. I have to tell you the truth by the only means possible to me at this moment.

You are all I think about. All I hope and plan for. I am certain you have seen this in every moment we have had together in the last year. I don't think I hid them well from you, certainly not from Timothy or his grandmother. I would not have waited this long if I had one iota of hope that you had discovered my feelings as I hope I have discovered yours.

I am desperately aware of what you will have to renounce to accept a life with me. I know it means the greatest of sacrifices for you. The thought is over whelming. You will be giving up everything you have ever worked for and I will be gaining everything that I have ever needed. Is that too much to ask? I no longer pretend for it to be fair for me to ask that of you. I only know I must because, come what may, at least you will know that you are absolutely and irrevocably cherished.

I can only hope is that you have come to the same conclusion. The conclusion that in coming to me you would not be renouncing your faith but merely rededicating it to a man and a boy in desperate need of your beauty, your generosity and your devotion. You would only be changing one vocation for another, equally as sacrosanct and blessed.

I have so little to offer and you have so much to give. I strive to live a good albeit humble life. I can only offer you a life gloriously full of honourable work beside a man who will treasure the angel you are with the utmost devotion. It would be my deepest honour to stand by your side and care for you through the many more months of recuperation you must endure and to the end of my days.

Am I saying too much? I don't think I could possibly say enough! Of all the many words I have written to you over the last months, there is only one small phrase left to be said. Upon your return home, a word or a glance will decide whether I say it or stay silent forever.

I am yours. Always.

* * *

A/N: Last minute decision, there will be an Epilogue. This needed a button. Bear with while I actually, ya know, write it, but please do come back and join me.


	11. Out Of The Wilderness

**A/N:** Picture this if you will... I'm on the pitch waiting for my daughters soccer/football regional tournament to kick-off and I start chatting with one of the grandmothers who was…(wait for it)…a nurse midwife in North England in the 1950-60's! Not sure she was expecting quite the interrogation I gave her, but she seemed to be more than happy to walk down memory lane with me. (She still has her pinard but hers is metal.) And boy! Did she fill in a lot of historical holes! Some are in here. Anyway, I took it as a sign that, despite the fact that I think I am channeling James Joyce or Virginia Woolf in this piece, it was time to stop fiddling with it and just put it out into the universe.

* * *

_We are all travelers in the wilderness of this world, and the best we can find in our travels is an honest friend._~Robert Louis Stevenson

On the day of her discharge from the Sanatorium, she stood in the front entry-way dressed in what she knew to be an out-dated dress suit, willing herself to pick up the telephone. After her three-month journey into the wilderness of separation and silence, she was plucking up the courage to ring him and tell him…what? Thank him yet again for his kindness? That she had made her decision? That she wanted to be with him always? She couldn't come up with the proper words for what she wanted to tell him. They had never needed many words. The expanse of the universe had been spoken only in fleeting glances. The resurrected woman she was now had been obscured for so long that she was unsure of what the appropriate order of treatment should be in these cases.

The most words they had ever shared came in his letters - those beautiful, heart-felt, glorious letters. They had not been too distressing to begin with. As she read his dear doctors scrawl, she felt a sense of peace wash over her. She felt a bit silly, actually, as the first letters were all rather mundane, concentrating on the ordinary everyday goings on at Nonnatus House but they were infused with his passion for his profession and enthusiasm for the young lay nurses in his charge. He did not need to encourage them as he did. Most doctors didn't bother, but as the Board appointed roving GP, he knew that it was in everyone's best interests to do so.

At the end of each of the letters was a loving addendum regarding Timothy, an addition that she greatly appreciated and anticipated with each envelope she opened. She had grown very fond of that little boy who was so like his father - generous, exuberant, clever and always inquiring. She could feel Dr. Turner's affection for his child pouring off the page. She could also feel the concern he has for him, the challenges he faces raising Timothy alone, and the toll it had taken on both of them. This made her melancholy for them. They both deserved so much more.

About a month into her treatment, the tone of the letters started to transform. As she read, she slowly became aware of another aspect so cloaked in professionalism that it was barely discernible, that of an unwavering respect for her. The tone remained platonic but still indicated that he valued her – at least as a colleague and friend. Along with his increasing concern over her silence, he touched on and moved away from memories too painful to explore in a gently restrained fashion. She could see he was trying to repress it, cover it up with teasing and compliments, but it was there none the less. He spoke of her gentleness, her wit, her professionalism, and most gratifying of all, their undeniable occupational connection. He did not tell her anything of which she was not already aware, but it pleased her greatly to see it expressed by him so honestly. If there had been one way for them to convey their growing respect, it was through their work. She felt ridiculously happy that he felt their affinity as strongly as she.

Then the letters took on an even more personal, open and impassioned tone. She read them with an ache in her heart and a furrow on her brow for all he had been through and all he had lost. She had known his wife and thought very highly of her. Indeed, this was part of her reticence as she discovered her growing affections for him. She had a sudden revelation that, despite the years they had been colleagues, she knew him so very little. The profoundness of this man seemed endless. Yet it was so easy to trust him. Every confidence he offered up to her only multiplied the questions she had about him. She found that she wanted to explore the depths of his mind, his heart and his soul.

When he spoke of the anxiety he felt when he had to tell her of her illness, she felt his pain to her core. Convinced as she was that this diagnosis was a punishment for her feelings for him, she had been so wrapped up in her own distress that she hadn't fully considered his. She felt her heart well up into her throat and the tears prick behind her eyes. Dear man! He made it clear that he would stand by her and care for her whatever it took, even if that meant her rejection. Yet, he seemed to instinctively understand that her continuous rebuffs, her constant running away, had more to do with her guilt concerning what she felt were her lies to God and her fellow sisters. How had he managed to hit the mark so perfectly? Had she been that transparent? Was this man the ever elusive soul mate the lay nurses had swooned over? Or was it because he had done his share of running away from his own pain in the last 2 years?

He dwelt at length on the day it all changed, the day, as he put it, he transformed everything and stepped over the boundary they had drawn between their professional affinity and personal attraction. It was the day that she had truly begun questioning what God wanted her to do. She read his explanation of why he followed her into the clinic and the emotions that over took him as he placed that kiss on her palm. At that moment they had both recognised that they had crossed over a point of no return. The fact was that she was horrified that her faith was stopping her from embracing the truth. There were only two beings in the universe who knew the truth about her – Dr. Turner and Him. The wound on her hand would heal easily enough. It was the wound in her soul that was festering. She did not want to turn her back on either of them but she thought she had to choose one of them.

With these memories coursing through her mind, she eagerly opened the last letter. As she read it, her heart seized and the tears of joy began to flow. He spoke of his own distraction whilst attempting to reconcile himself to his growing affection. He was so desperately trying to regain a connection with her through his frank revelation of his feelings. She felt horrible for putting him through the affliction of her silence. His final words reverberated through her soul, "_He misses you. We miss you. I miss you." _These three simple phrases were so candid and pleading, they finally traversed the gap between them. They gave her the strength she needed to begin to open the window and act on the emotions they both so keenly felt. She knew how difficult this leap of faith must have been for him because she was feeling it herself. In response, she decided that she would simply put one foot in front of the other.

Her first tentative step out of the wilderness was to reply to Timothy. She did not yet think it forthright to contact the Doctor more directly until she fully shed her habit. Instead, she sent a hidden message. She used the word "kind" intentionally hoping that it would reverberate with the meaning for him that she intended. She prayed that the coded words would give him the sustenance he needed to hold on while she made the necessary arrangements. There were procedures to be gone through as she stitched her soul back together.

Her next slightly more confident step was to request her old belongings from Sr. Julienne. She knew now that she could never honestly put the habit on again. The look on Sr. Julienne's face when she confessed to not being able to wear it pierced her soul. She knew that Sr. Julienne relied on her very heavily as her second. It pained her to think that she had to hurt one dear friend to embrace another. It was an almost untenable choice. It sent her into a flurry of insecurity and she hesitated.

Then she received his last two missives. They arrived within days of each other but were worlds apart.

The first had been one last agonizing attempt to express his affections for her. He made no effort to hide them behind friendship or professionalism. He candidly expressed his own moral dilemma in caring for her while generously making it clear that he would give her all the time she needed, even if that meant forever. She thought it a sign from God that they had come to the same conclusions at the same time. The affection they had for each other was not sinful. It was glorious! How she had failed to see that for so long? It devastated her to see him so defeated on her account. She prayed that he had written this letter prior to receiving her response to Timothy.

After three days haunted by his desolation, God answered her prayers with that wondrous last letter. It beat so fiercely with life and emotion that her heart soared! In it he extended his hand to her across the emotional abyss that lay between them. He _had_ received her letter to Timothy with the few words of solace for him. He _had_ understood it. It _had_ given him the hope he craved if not the answer he deserved. The elation she felt sent her into an agitation so acute she could think of nothing else. Her spirit danced in a private rapture.

Earlier this day, the day she is determined to walk out of the wilderness forever, she sat on the sanatorium bed readying herself for her final step to him. She sat staring at the old brown leather suitcase her father had given her when she left Aberdeen to attend nursing school. She gazed at the old case for what felt like ages thinking about who she had been before taking orders. She had been little more than a child at the time, full of optimism and enthusiasm to assist the sick and infirm. The war had only just ended. She had survived The Aberdeen Blitz and knew first-hand of the destruction it wrought and the help that was needed in London in their rebuilding process. That naïve girl had been there all along. Indeed, aspects of that person had never truly left her, she knew that now, but it had only been in recent months that the suppressed person, a woman named _Shelagh_, had started to creep back into her life.

It would take time to get used to that name again: _Shelagh_. When she was very young, her mother had told her that it meant _Heaven _or _Blind_ and had affectionately laughed at the irony of the latter meaning for her bespectacled daughter. Certainly, the irony in both meanings were not lost on her now. She had indeed been blind to her own heaven. Whether it had been her feelings for Dr. Turner that had opened _Shelagh's _eyes after her decade long slumber or the other way round she was not fully certain. All of it took her so much by surprise. She had not expected this to happen.

She had believed with every fibre of her being that dedicating herself to God was her life's calling. When she had confessed to Sr. Julienne, her friend and mentor had warned her how difficult it would be. She hated to be the cause of such concern, but her illness had made her see that she was not close to death, she was close to life. She knew now that He had another plan for her, one she could not see until it was staring her in the face. She knew that her journey through her cloistered life was the path leading her to him, to Dr. Turner. God hadn't forsaken her. He had given her a most precious gift. She understood now. She no longer felt guilty or alone because this had been His plan all along. After purging herself of the guilt and the lies she had convinced herself she had been telling God and her fellow sisters, she had felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. Sr. Julienne, soul of souls that she was, had accepted it with her usual compassion, had made arrangements for her convalescence in Chichester and the delivery of her case. But she wasn't going to go to Chichester. Her future lay in the suitcase, in Poplar, and with him.

Tentatively, as if she were opening Pandora's Box, she slowly slid her hands across the worn leather and pushed the latches on the case. They flew open with a snap that echoed around her room. As she opened the case, her nose caught the smell of the world outside her cloistered life. In it was the last outfit she had worn as a young nurse, fresh out of the nursing home. One step at a time, she dressed in the shadows of her room without looking in the mirror. She stepped to the curtain to shed light on the person from long ago. She slowly turned towards the mirror to look at herself. She gazed at herself in reverent wonder. It had been a very long time since she had seen herself out of the coverings of her habit. She took another step towards her reflection in the mirror and placed her hands tentatively on her waist, following the curves of the woman she had almost forgotten. It felt unusually invigorating to be so exposed.

She shakes herself out of her memories back into the present, still staring at the telephone, still wondering what she will say. What if he's not there? Or perhaps she should just ring Sr. Julienne instead. But in her heart of hearts she couldn't be more certain that this man, this lovely, affable, brilliant man, is her life, her desire, her destiny.

She pauses for another moment, wondering what she will do if he is not in his office, if he doesn't answer. She decides to leave it in God's hands. If it is meant to be, it will be. After all, He had led her this far despite her blindness to His will. He has shown her the way out of the wilderness but it was up to her to take the final step.

Gathering her courage one last time with a steadying breath, she lifts the hand-set and dials the number for his office in the Maternity Home.

Miraculously, she hears his melodious tenor for the first time in almost 3 months,

"_Morning…" _

She basks in his voice for the most meager of moments, then, trusting that her heart will instinctively find the words where her brain fails, responds very directly and, as always with them, simply,

"_I'm being discharged."_

~Finis~

* * *

**A/N:**

Thanks to Jennifer Worth, Heidi Thomas, (and Harriet Warner) as well as all the other CTM fanfic writers for inspiration of writing. Especially On-the-right-road (whoever you may be), because your insidious little plot bunny jumped on my back, sunk its teeth into my jugular vein and wouldn't let me go until I had written this. ;-)

Thanks to Stephen McGann, Laura Main and Max Macmillan for creating such rich inner lives for their characters.

My deepest gratitude goes to all of you for reading and reviewing. All of you who responded are in this last chapter somewhere, either literally or in spirit. Please leave one last review?

For **my** Patrick.

Namaste!


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